


Vantage Point

by FeliciaHM, thetreesgrowodd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Childhood Memories, Dysfunctional Family, Families of Choice, M/M, Missing Persons, Not in Blood But in Bond, Sherlock is an ass about Mycroft's weight, not the Holmes parents as seen in S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1547912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeliciaHM/pseuds/FeliciaHM, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetreesgrowodd/pseuds/thetreesgrowodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a secret case, Mycroft has a stranger in his car, and John suspects they know more than they're telling him about a mysterious bombing in London. Getting the Holmes brothers to open up isn't easy - especially when it's about their past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeliciaHM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeliciaHM/gifts).



> Thanks to FeliciaHM, who was incredibly helpful, patient, and supportive during the writing process.
> 
> Thanks to SwissMiss for beta reading.
> 
> Warnings for non-detailed descriptions of injuries from an explosion, and discussion of emotionally abusive/neglectful parents. Not S3 compliant.

It was Sherlock's fault.

John would never tell him that, of course. Sherlock was already responsible for far too many important things in John's life. But, just as an agitated, choppy sea eventually washes things ashore in orderly waves, Sherlock's influence on John left him disorientated but still — slowly, subtly — pushed him in a single direction — toward Mycroft Holmes.

Despite the slow build, their relationship truly began, as so many things in John's history unfortunately had, with a dangerous, gritty, violent incident.

*

At the sight of Mycroft's familiar car sitting at the curb ahead of him, John stopped walking and looked up at the bright blue sky with a sigh— it was the first nice weather in weeks, but undoubtedly his walk was over now. To his surprise, both Mycroft and a young man stepped out of the car and exchanged words briefly before the man walked away.

"Who was that, then?" John asked, going up to Mycroft. "Don't tell me you're kidnapping other blokes now — I thought we had something special." It was a bit like poking a bear, but John couldn't stop himself.

"Pay him no mind." Mycroft smiled his tight-lipped smile. "John, I've meant to speak to you about something. Would you be so kind?" He gestured toward the open passenger door. Inside, John caught a glimpse of Anthea's legs. He ducked down to see her looking lovely and classy as ever in a well-fitted, dark blue silk suit.

"Hello. How are you?" he asked her.

"Mmm."

'Some things never change,' thought John as he turned back to Mycroft. A lift would be helpful as John's hands _were_ full of heavy grocery bags, although he still resented Mycroft's presumption. "Alright, how about I agree to listen to what you have to say while we're driving, and you agree to make it quick and take me straight home? I have ice cream in here." It was a game John played for his own sanity, pretending he had any say in the matter.

A glint in Mycroft's eyes said, 'I _let_ you play your game and we both know it.' "Thank you, John." 

Once they were settled in the car, John looked at both employer and employee and wondered if they coordinated their wardrobes. Mycroft's dark blue suit looked almost black in this light and his maroon tie matched Anthea's perfectly manicured nails. Their bespoke suits contrasted with John's 'on sale' trousers, shirt and jumper (which went together just fine, despite what Sherlock had said the last time he'd worn them). John caught Mycroft's widened smile and knew the man knew what John was thinking. John cleared his throat. "Not like you, is it, Mycroft? Actually coming to get me yourself?"

"I had other business here. Running into you was mere chance."

John thought about the CCTV cameras and doubted that their meeting was coincidence. Mycroft probably had a live feed on his phone at all times. He stifled a snort.

Mycroft continued: "I'd planned to send a car to bring you by later, but we can discuss things en route to Baker—"

A sound like thunder — but _shockingly_ loud — came from behind them and slammed into the car with physical force. It was a sound that John knew (though he'd never heard it in London), a sound that had adrenaline pumping into his system and provoked the old familiar sensation of calm, detached urgency of action. John twisted around to look out the back window. Time seemed to slow down. He assessed the situation and checking for any immediate threat. Not a block behind them there was a cloud of black smoke, churning with lighter-colored masonry dust. People were rushing away from it. There had to be injuries.

"Go! Get someplace safe," John ordered, abandoning his shopping bags and leaping out of the car before it came to a complete stop. He weaved through the people fleeing the area, assessing their condition with a practiced eye. Just because they were on their feet and moving didn't always mean they were all right. But he knew how to prioritize during an emergency in order to save the most people, and there would be more severe injuries ahead.

He'd never considered that Mycroft might leave the safety of the car. By all rights, that car should have been speeding Mycroft far away. But no, Mycroft was beside him, keeping pace. A stride behind him were Anthea, still jabbing at her phone, and Mycroft's driver.

"Go back! It's not safe!" John called.

"I am aware of that," Mycroft replied, as imperturbable as ever.

"I can't protect you! If you die here and Sherlock has to come ID your body, he'll be utter shit to live with!"

"I assure you, if _you_ die here, he would be destroyed!" Mycroft dodged around the crowd with surprising agility.

They spotted a man on the ground and cleared some debris off him together. John dropped to his knees and evaluated him — alive, but bleeding from several gashes. John's handkerchief was too small to bandage him with, so he would have to use the only other cloth he had on his person — his own clothing. He took off his jumper and looked at it — it was made of natural fibers, so it would be absorbent, but if he tried to rip it into bandages it would just unravel in his hands.

"Allow me." Mycroft, at John's elbow, had a fancy, multi-bladed folding knife in his hand. He pulled out a scissor attachment — a sturdy, _proper_ pair of scissors, far better than the flimsy ones that John usually saw on those type of knives. If John hadn't been so distracted, he would have been envious of it.

John passed his jumper over in surprise and watched Mycroft snip the first neat strip off. Luckily the jumper had a tight weave and would hold together long enough to get the job done. Saying in soothing tones, "All right, mate, I'm a doctor. You're going to be fine. Help is on its way," John began bandaging the wounded man. For now, all he could do was patch people up quickly until the paramedics could get to them.

When John was done, he moved on to tend the next injured person. And the next, and the next. When the strips of his jumper were gone, John ripped up his shirt. The smell of blood and smoke, the debris that shifted under his feet, the grit that settled over everything — they were all familiar. They turned John into a machine programed to save as many lives as possible, turning away from those who were beyond his aid without regret or emotion, in order to spend more time on those he could still help. He lost time, he lost London, and for the first time since their meeting, he lost Sherlock. Nothing existed outside of his immediate field of vision.

But somehow, through his haze of action, John dimly realized Mycroft was no longer beside him. He looked up to find him several yards away, kneeling by a teen and tending his wounds. To see Mycroft literally getting his hands dirty was shocking — even more shocking was that he was doing it for a _stranger_. John blinked stupidly at the sight of Mycroft stripped down to his shirtsleeves, tie discarded, winding neat strips of what had been his suit jacket around the teenager's bloodied leg.

Behind Mycroft, Anthea stood tensely, her suit jacket open now, scanning everything around them. John knew that look, although he'd never seen it on her. It was the expression and the posture of someone who was armed and anticipating an attack — watchful, but unwilling to provoke any action by drawing her weapon. As aware of danger as John himself was, this seemed overly cautious. For all they knew, the explosion could have been accidental, perhaps the result of a gas leak. Did they have some reason to expect an attack? Could Mycroft have had something to do with the whole thing? But now that he thought about it — surely, it couldn't have been a _coincidence_ that the explosion had happened right where Mycroft had just been?

When Mycroft moved to an injured woman lying near the teenager, Anthea moved with him, perfectly in sync. Mycroft knelt and probed at the woman's bloody, ragged sleeve, saying something in a calming tone. The only time John had heard anything close to that tone from Mycroft was when he spoke to Sherlock, and even then it was rare.

John made his way toward them, noticing for the first time that the driver was shadowing him and watching for danger with the same kind of wary stance as Anthea. Automatically, John checked the teenager that Mycroft had just bandaged and found that he'd done a perfectly serviceable job. He knew what he was doing, it seemed.

"Doctor Watson, may I borrow you for a moment?" Mycroft called.

John joined him at the injured woman's side. Mycroft was pressing his folded waistcoat against her arm. There was a puddle of spreading blood under it.

"The bleeding isn't stopping," Mycroft said, calmly. "I believe a tourniquet, despite the dangers, may be helpful in such situations, but I of course I wanted your opinion first."

"Let me see?" John asked. Mycroft lifted the pad of his waistcoat and John inspected the wound closely.

"There now, you're in good hands," Mycroft said soothingly to the semi-conscious woman, who seemed to relax in response.

"Sir, this is unnecessary," Anthea said.

"Noted," Mycroft said, evasive in typically Holmes fashion.

"Yes, I think this needs a tourniquet. We'll need some clean fabric, something without too much stretch to it, and a narrow, cylindrical object to twist it tight." John glanced up, thinking that the fabric of Anthea's skirt would work nicely, but unsure how to phrase his request for it, when he saw that Mycroft had already shed his shirt and was cutting a wide strip out of the shirt. Without even diverting his focus from over their heads, the driver handed over a torch.

John wound the fabric around the limb and inserted the torch crosswise through the fabric. "Mycroft, if you can hold this..."

"Certainly," Mycroft said, getting into position and holding both ends of the torch.

"Twist it gradually, until you see the bleeding stop and then hold it in place," John instructed. It was strange to see Mycroft here, kneeling bare-chested and bloody-handed in the dust and debris, calm but for a sheen of dampness across his brow. It was true, John realized, that Mycroft was no stranger to stress and emergency situations — except he usually faced them from a desk, a monitor, or a phone.

"Where are the paramedics?" John muttered to himself, binding the torch in place with strips of the maroon silk lining from the waistcoat. Ideally someone would stay to hold the tourniquet tight until help arrived, but he knew they had other injured people to move on to.

Almost as if he had a sixth sense, John was aware of what was about to happen seconds before it did. The 'danger' warning pinged in his head when he heard footsteps running toward them, and out of his peripheral vision he saw both Anthea and the driver move in unison. John only had time to see a figure in the smoke raise a firearm, clearly aimed at Mycroft, before his reflexes took over and he dived onto Mycroft, carefully keeping them from falling on the already-wounded woman and protecting Mycroft's head from hitting the pavement.

The three gunshots — the man's, Anthea's, and the driver's — came so close together they almost sounded like one. John had a long frozen moment with Mycroft, covering his body as best he could with his smaller one. Then he looked up, ears ringing, at Anthea and the driver standing over the unmoving figure, their guns still trained on him. John felt Mycroft gasp in a breath, and John sat back on his heels.

The enemy's shot, it seemed, had missed everyone, but John checked Mycroft all over with his eyes and his hands, frantically.

"I am uninjured, John. Thank you," Mycroft said gently, sitting up. "I don't believe the same can be said for him." He nodded toward the downed man. Anthea kicked the gun out of his limp hand with one of her stylish high-heeled shoes.

John stood up, then helped Mycroft up and they went to inspect the gunman. He was young and dressed casually — jeans, a faded tee shirt, and an open jacket. If John had passed him on the street, he would have thought he was an average uni student — if he noticed him at all. No doubt, Sherlock would have said that everything from his haircut to his shoes had been selected with the intention of blending in. Both bullets had hit him in non-lethal areas, although blood was pooling around him and he needed medical attention. Anthea was on her phone now, speaking in urgent tones.

"John, listen to me," Mycroft said in his compelling voice. "It is imperative that this man survive, but without going to hospital."

"What do you mean?"

"He absolutely must not interact with anyone — anyone at all, not even the paramedics. He has vital information which we must find out. His accomplices will be willing to kill him before he can do so, and yes, they have the ability to infiltrate hospitals and ambulances and convincingly pose as medical personnel."

"He needs proper medical care," John said, already kneeling and trying to stop the bleeding. "More than I can do here with — with my _hands_ and strips of cloth — no offense to your suit —"

"I have my own medical facility," Mycroft said as if it should have been obvious. "With access to that, do you think you can save him?"

"Yes. Yes, if we can get there quickly."

"Transport is on its way, sir," Anthea said.

John glanced out at the injured people still on the ground amid the debris and rubble, some wrapped in makeshift bandages made out of John's own clothing and Mycroft's very posh suit, and some that they hadn't had time to reach at all. In the distance, John heard what he'd been waiting to hear all along — sirens coming toward them — and hoped that the paramedics would get to them in time.

A van pulled up beside them at that moment. Men in suits, obviously Mycroft's men, got out and lifted the gunman onto a stretcher. John moved with them, continuing to put pressure on the gunshot wounds, and got into the van with them, wondering when he'd started going along with these things so easily.

A moment later they loaded a second injured man. John had briefly tended to him earlier. Now that he got a better look at his face, he realized he was the man who had exited Mycroft's car shortly before the explosion.

Someone shut the doors of the van and it pulled away.

The scene of destruction and violence was out of his sight, getting further and further away, but John still saw it behind his eyelids.

*

John sat down, finally, and tried to remember what he'd been planning to do with his day before it got so completely derailed. Sherlock had been gone when John had woken up that morning, which was always slightly worrying, but Sherlock's absence could be a relief sometimes too. He'd planned to use the Sherlock-free time to restock some supplies and do some tidying. He'd just finished the shopping when he'd run into Mycroft... John rubbed his eyes.

The van had taken them to some kind of underground bunker. John had been too busy with the injured men they'd brought in to give it much thought, but now that he did it was just so ridiculous and yet so _practical_ of Mycroft to have a fully-stocked safe bunker, complete with a small but adequate medical room. John wondered if it was bomb-proof and how long someone could live down here.

A second doctor — apparently on call for Mycroft — had arrived to help John. When the two patients were in stable condition, more men in suits had arrived and taken them into separate rooms. John knew they'd interrogate the gunman once he was awake and able to talk, but he was still unclear of the other man's role in all of this.

John had lost track of time in the windowless environment, but it felt very late. He checked his phone. There was no signal.

"We're too far underground," Anthea said, making John jump. She walked over to him and handed him a shopping bag with the name of an upscale shop on the side. "Change of clothes for you," she said. It was heavy, full of brand-new things wrapped in tissue. Of course, John must look awful. He'd simply thrown on a medical smock over his vest earlier.

"Thank you. That wasn't necessary."

"Change in there, please." She indicated a small loo.

"Um. Yes. Actually, I need to get home or at least get a message to Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson —"

"Already taken care of."

"Er. Right. But can I go home, or am I an actual prisoner here?" John asked, a bit snippy with fatigue.

Anthea opened another door to what looked like an office. "After you change, wait in here," she said, not actually answering his question, then went back down the hall the way she'd come from.

With a sigh of resignation, John went into the bathroom and took a quick shower. After drying off, he unwrapped the things in the bag. His entire outfit — even his shoes — had been replaced. He wondered if Anthea had picked everything out — it seemed like the kind of thing Mycroft would have her do. It was the kind of thing Sherlock would have delegated to John in the same position, after all. Seeing Anthea run with Mycroft into danger earlier and protect him without hesitation had made John think that she was to Mycroft what he was to Sherlock. He tried to imagine the two of them interacting as casually and closely as he and Sherlock did. It felt funny — it just didn't sit right with him.

Not only did the clothes all fit perfectly, but John had to admit that whoever had picked them out had chosen well. While the clothes were obviously of a higher quality than John would have selected for himself, the colors and styles suited his tastes and felt comfortable. Although how could they have known the style of briefs he liked, down to the cut and color?

*

"Ah John. The clothes are adequate, I hope?" Mycroft asked, giving him a quick once-over when John walked into the office. Mycroft, of course, looked immaculate again in another suit. He showed no signs of having been present for any of the chaos earlier, except for a slight tiredness in his posture and around his eyes. "Have a seat. Have some tea, please," he prompted when John continued to linger near the door.

John sat in a chair across the desk from Mycroft. John felt as if the room were tilting slightly; an aftereffect of the adrenaline.

Mycroft leaned forward. "Thank you, John, for your services. If I can further recompense you for any inconvenience, I shall."

John shook his head. "I don't need that. This is my job. This is what I do." It was true that John loved the thrill of danger, the feeling of helping and being needed desperately during an emergency. He'd gone out of his way in his life to seek out such opportunities. But what he didn't like was such situations being created unnecessarily, or the possibility that he had been brought in as a pawn. "Actually, all I want is to know what's going on. And to get home."

Mycroft's posture stiffened. "The regrettable incident this afternoon was due to a miscalculation on my part —"

"Because I can't believe for a second that a bomb just happened to go off exactly where you'd been, what, sixty seconds before."

Mycroft steepled his fingers pensively. "The bombing was a _reaction_ to an action on my part, yes, but an entirely irrational, illogical one. I could not have foreseen it. The individuals involved are clearly more volatile than anticipated. I assure you, John, that I would not have knowingly endangered civilians nor, indeed, _you_. It was mere coincidence that you were there."

"Even though you were planning to kidnap me later in the day," John said.

"The word _kidnap_ is so —"

John cut him off with a sigh. "You said you had something to discuss with me?"

"Indeed." Mycroft shifted slightly in his chair. "Did my brother tell you what he planned to do today?"

"No, he didn't, he was just gone when I woke up. Don't tell me he's involved with —" John said, suddenly panicked at the image that had popped into his head — Sherlock in the rubble, one of the victims John hadn't been able to reach.

"No, not directly. The incident today was, shall we say, one snarl in a rather complicated tangle. Currently, I am tracing one thread to the heart of that tangle, and my brother is following another."

"So he's on a case then? Why didn't he tell me about it?"

There was a slight pause before Mycroft replied. "Because it involves individuals from his youth, which he has always been secretive about."

"From his youth? What, like schoolmates? Neighbors? Nannies, tutors, someone like that? Couldn't be friends. You yourself told me he didn't have any." John spoke almost bitterly. Mycroft's assertions that Sherlock had no friends had always felt uncomfortable to John — a harsh judgement of an older brother still caught up in sibling rivalry.

Mycroft smiled his quick, insincere smile. "Not friends, precisely. More like... bad influences."

Trying to puzzle out his meaning, John gave Mycroft a long look. Mycroft gave him a moment, undoing his waistcoat buttons and rolling up his shirtsleeves. Before today, John had never seen him relax so much as to even take his jacket off.

"What do you know of his childhood? Of — _our_ — childhood?"

John curled his upper lip under to moisten it against his tongue. "Not specifics, really, though he's told me a bit. Wasn't happy, was it? Couldn't have been healthy?"

"It wasn't so bad," Mycroft began. John thought an outright denial was coming, and braced himself for it — after dealing with his own family for so many years, John _hated_ denial. "We had birthday parties and Christmas presents. We were given ample pocket money. I was indulged in my interests in foreign language and travel, and Sherlock got whichever lessons he wanted — martial arts, fencing, boxing."

"Yes, and?" John asked, a little sharply.

"And things were missing. It was a life full of whatever money could buy, and yet a life lived at arm's distance from the things that it _couldn't_."

It was more honesty, and more insight than John had expected from Mycroft. "Such as?"

"Oh, you tell me," Mycroft said, dismissively. "Sherlock has found some of it with you... the brother he _should_ have had."

John shook his head, unsure of what to say.

"I was too much older than he was, and too accustomed to being an only child to know how to interact with a baby brother," Mycroft said. "And really, I was ill-suited to be the emotional support and companion he needed so badly. All too soon, I was off to school and wrapped up in my own life. I was too far away to protect him, and when I realized how desperately he needed my protection — his unruly years, years he balanced on the brink of self-destruction for nothing more than the _thrill_ of it — he utterly rejected it — rejected me. The point is, John, that this case is personal for Sherlock. It relates back to those years, and thus he is likely to be reckless and secretive. He won't accept my protection, but he often accepts _yours_."

"He's in danger, then?"

"Yes. And the incident today will only have raised the tensions involved." Mycroft rubbed his face. "The gunman that we now have in custody — alive for questioning, thanks to you — was far from the only threat involved. There are other dangerous individuals involved. I don't wish to turn Sherlock away from the case — I don't delude myself into thinking I could — but I need you to keep an eye on him."

"You said bad influences — I need to know, who exactly —?"

Mycroft opened his mouth and drew in a breath to answer, but just then his phone pinged and he glanced at it. "Sherlock is here."


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft stepped into the hall and spoke quietly to someone. John recognized Sherlock's low voice, although he couldn't make out the words, and felt a rush of relief at the familiar sound. John wondered if Mycroft had called Sherlock in to fetch him. He felt like a child — in an unfamiliar place, kept in the dark about serious things, and now having someone come pick him up to bring him home. Tired of all the secrecy, John was about to stand up to join them in the hall, but just then the two of them came into the office.

Sherlock gave John a glance, looking for injury — of course, Sherlock would be aware by now that John had been present at the bombing and shooting. John knew Sherlock could assess someone in minute detail at a glimpse, but this was a slightly longer look, one that betrayed his concern, even if that concern didn't show on his face. Still, Sherlock looked tired.

"Enjoying your new outfit, John?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow quirking, before he turned back to Mycroft. "You've been playing a careless game," he said with a sigh and sat down without taking off his coat or scarf.

"What of the official investigation?" Mycroft asked, resuming his chair.

"They're baffled, as usual. I've let Lestrade drag me to the bombing site to investigate. Although I already suspected your involvement, I was surprised to see the evidence of how actively involved you were. Getting out of your car? Tending the wounded?"

"The situation took an unexpected turn. I had to improvise."

"As did I, when I deduced a lot of twaddle for Lestrade — the identity and motives of the bombers, who the intended targets must have been, who the mysterious individuals were who provided emergency first aid before fleeing. My false leads will keep Scotland Yard going round in circles for a few weeks. I've set Lestrade on a path that leads to failure, and when he eventually comes to me for additional help, I'll have to disappoint him further and leave him to concede his inability to solve the case — all for you, dear brother."

"I'm sure his _considerable_ esteem for you will recover from the blow," Mycroft said dryly.

Sherlock's face was tightly controlled. "At least you've erased some of your own tracks. All three cameras that cover the area apparently malfunctioned this afternoon, several moments before the explosion. Yet another thing Lestrade will waste his time on investigating. He won't get anywhere with it, obviously, as it was your work. The city barely functions with Lestrade doing his utmost. It may well crumble while he is on this fool's errand." Sherlock glared at Mycroft. John had suspected for some time that Sherlock had more respect for Greg than he normally let on.

"Well? May I see it?" Sherlock didn't need to specify what he was asking about. "Although I've deduced most of what happened from the crime scene itself, of course."

"Certainly." Mycroft turned his monitor around and played the CCTV footage for them. John leaned in to watch more closely.

The car, the explosion, the cloud of smoke and dust. Their small group running in. From this angle, and without being distracted by the immediacy of the emergency, Anthea and the driver's roles as bodyguards were immediately obvious to John. The way they were standing and scanning the area around them, not even looking at the rubble or victims. John and Mycroft sacrificing their own clothes for bandages and tending the wounded. The gunman approaching and being shot, John working to save the gunman, then the lot of them getting into the van. Just like that, it was over. It had felt much longer than it really was. John realized he had tensed up while watching and forced himself to relax back in his chair.

Sherlock drank in each detail as they watched it from all three angles.

"Well..." Sherlock smirked, watching Mycroft cutting his own suit into strips as the footage looped. "The news media is already buzzing with the acts of mysterious Good Samaritans who bandaged the victims out of fine wool and silk. Sloppy there, brother. If I hadn't already known of your involvement, I'd have identified you from that in no time. Any halfway clever investigator could trace those scraps back to the family tailor and then to you... although you have reminded me to do more analysis into the absorbency and staining of blood on various types of fabrics. And — ah." Sherlock shook his head at the screen. "And there you are, displaying yourself in all your glory. What must those poor victims have been thinking, lying there wounded, opening their eyes to see that? 'Oh, why couldn't the explosion have just killed me?'"

"Sherlock," John said, in his 'behave like a human person' voice.

"Perhaps I can convince Lestrade that the CCTV cameras spontaneously failed and deleted their footage out of disgust at the sight —"

"Sherlock," John said again, more strongly. "There's nothing wrong with the way he looks. The diet's working. And weight training too, yeah?" John looked at Mycroft for confirmation. Mycroft gave him an odd look, but nodded anyway. "Well it's all working, Mycroft. I thought you looked quite fit — If I saw you in a pub, I'd likely try to pull you — so don't listen to him."

They both stared at John in stunned silence, their twin expressions bringing out their family resemblance in an uncanny way.

"What?" John said, his face growing hot. "I'm saying — just hypothetically, if I saw him somewhere, I'd think —"

Sherlock waved his hands impatiently. "John's highly questionable taste aside — you must have been desperate, Mycroft, to sacrifice a bespoke suit —"

"Sherlock. What Mycroft did _saved lives_. He didn't hesitate, he just did what needed doing," John said. "I don't care if you give him crap over your old childhood rivalries or whatnot, but not for this. Not for actual bravery."

Sherlock turned to him. "John. Don't confuse Mycroft's actions and motivations with yours. Outwardly, they may look similar, but they are not."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"You were saving people's lives after a catastrophe... not trying to minimize the consequences of your own blunder. Anyway," Sherlock said with a little shake of his head, "why do you praise him for accomplishing the _amazing feat_ of not overeating, and yet —"

"Wait," John began.

"— you nag _me_ for not eating enough."

"Just shut up a second, Sherlock!" John's head was starting to spin, and he could hear blood rushing in his ears. He was tired of them talking over his head, and angry about their apparent flippancy regarding the injured. "I'm not getting this. What exactly was the bombing about?" He looked from one brother to the other. "Will someone please explain? Everything. From the start."

Mycroft folded his hands as if about to begin a lecture. "Several days ago I received some intelligence from contacts in the financial district that a foreign group was attempting what might be called an extremely hostile takeover on a local business. A local _less-than-legal_ business, yet one which is vital to the economy and thus has been overlooked and allowed to operate for years. It could be a disaster to the economy if they succeed. Apparently, they are holding the business owner, Mr. James Trevor, against his will. However, they still need the cooperation of Victor Trevor, his son, who has control of several aspects of the family business."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and John followed his gaze to see Sherlock staring at the wall, tension in his jaw, neck, and shoulders which hadn't been there previously. "The Trevors are quite well known to Sherlock, as is their business," Mycroft continued. "One might say they were _thick as thieves_ , once. As I understand it, Victor had already contacted Sherlock for assistance in recovering his father and their business before any of it came to my attention."

"Why didn't you tell me about this, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed. "I was merely doing some preliminary investigation and offering advice as a favor, that's all. It's not an official case."

Mycroft smirked at him. "Really, Sherlock?"

"I'd hoped to keep it quiet and simple. No chance of that now, not after your involvement." Sherlock hunched down in his coat as if he were cold.

"And this leads to the bombing... how?" John asked, looking from one Holmes to the other, before settling on Mycroft.

"This group demanded Victor meet with them at a time and location of their choosing, and indicated that public safety might be threatened if he failed to show up and cooperate. However, we learned that Victor had no intention of meeting with them and had gone into hiding. We were unable to locate him, and attempts at contacting him to reason with him failed." Mycroft gave Sherlock a hard look. "So we had to try another approach."

"So, you knew about the bomb ahead of time? Or at least some kind of threat?" John asked.

Mycroft nodded. "But I assure you, John, our plan was foolproof. That they would have carried out their threat —"

"But they did."

"Regrettably. And also quite unexpectedly. You see, Victor has always been a bit of a recluse, doing his work from afar. It was quite likely that the individuals involved had never actually met him, so we arranged for a lookalike — an extremely good match for the real Victor — to rendezvous with them, in order to temporarily appease them and also to gather information for us. We have the most advanced facial-recognition software available, and found quite a satisfactory match among our sizable pool of agents. He was expertly made over and trained. However, members of this group must have been watching the meeting area at a distance. Somehow they sensed a deception and chose to detonate the bomb without ever approaching him. One of them very rashly attacked us as we worked to retrieve our agent. Thanks to you, John, we currently have both the attacker and our agent alive and safely in our custody."

"What a ridiculous risk. You were overconfident," Sherlock snapped. "They could have killed John."

"I would never have put him in harm's way intentionally. It was pure chance that John walked by just before it happened. And nothing I could have said would keep him from rushing to administer first aid," Mycroft said. "What would you have had me do, tackle him?"

"It might have slowed him down, although not for long. People have been known to lift great weights off themselves when under the influence of adrenaline. But you're right; nothing would have kept him from rushing into danger." Sherlock smiled tightly at John with a look of affectionate exasperation, which John returned.

"At any rate, this is boring me," Sherlock said, standing up and ending the conversation. "I'll go about this my own way from now on, thank you, Mycroft. Kindly don't tempt my flatmate into danger by injuring any more civilians."

Mycroft nodded wearily. "For all you say that this isn't an official case, I know you mean to pursue it, Sherlock. But be careful. Don't let your heart rule your head, as the saying goes."

"You too." There was a long look between the brothers.

*

Sherlock stalked around the flat that evening, muttering to himself and occasionally asking John for additional details about the incident, but beyond a more detailed description of the gunman, John couldn't tell him much that hadn't been apparent on the video (which Sherlock, unsurprisingly, had copies of on his phone and laptop already).

Sherlock was restless, prowling, but he had changed into his pajamas and dressing gown and was eating bites of food out of the take-out containers whenever his pacing took him near them, and John knew those were good signs. They meant that whatever was going on in the investigation, no matter how agitated Sherlock was, he would eventually settle in for the night and leave the rest of the work for the next day. As it was, there didn't seem to be much more they could do tonight.

As for John, he had collapsed on the couch with some tea and food. He still saw phantoms of the debris and wounded bodies behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes for longer than a blink. Right now, he just wanted it to go away — that was his old army training — with one crisis over, and another potentially looming, he had to let it go and process it all later.

Sherlock seemed casual when he collapsed next to John on the sofa with a sleepy grunt, then stretched and squirmed and inched over until he was curled up with his head on John's thigh, but what he was doing was obvious to John. Sherlock wanted comfort from John, reassurance that John was all right. It had been a near miss, and they both felt it. John could easily have been caught in the explosion or shot by the gunman. Had the timing been a little different, or the shooter's aim sloppy, or had Anthea and the driver failed to take down the gunman, Sherlock would be alone on the sofa right now, numb with the loss and grief, his relationship with his brother beyond repair... and John gone forever.

"All right," John said simply, his voice full of fond impatience. This was what the two of them did — it was how they communicated, how they expressed themselves. Never quite talking about it, never acknowledging it, always treating it with impatience — but the sentiment was there between them, the brotherly love that Mycroft had noticed and commented on.

John indulged Sherlock with a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Sherlock braced his feet on the armrest and pressed harder into John, temple against the new, fine-quality trousers. John stroked Sherlock's hair, hand loose, brushing his nape with each stroke, and Sherlock relaxed into it. 

Through vague, disinterested-sounding questioning, which was necessary to keep Sherlock from shutting down entirely, John had once asked Sherlock about his childhood, and found out that Sherlock had never been held as a child — at least not beyond infancy — not sat on a lap, or cuddled, or hugged, despite the fact (Sherlock had told him in a distanced, scornful tone) that science had shown that children who had such contact were happier, healthier and grew into better-adjusted members of society.

Sherlock craved it sometimes now, often when John was busy with something else, like a cat that sits on the book its owner is engrossed in, but he only ever acted on it when he was alone with John. John didn't mind. He was, if he admitted it to himself, rather ridiculously fond of Sherlock. He wondered if this old acquaintance, this Victor, had given Sherlock affection, and what he had been to Sherlock, but this wasn't the moment to ask.

Mycroft had spoken of Sherlock getting things from John that they hadn't got as children. John's heart felt heavy when he wondered where Mycroft got those things he needed — or did he at all? Did he crave it like Sherlock? Who could possibly do this for him? Anthea? Or did Mycroft have a significant other that John didn't know about?

"You smell like Mycroft," Sherlock complained against John's kneecap.

"I do? Oh, his soap? I had a shower while I was there."

"I'd have stayed dirty, if it were me. Blood and smoke, much better than —" Sherlock sniffed. "— sandalwood."

John laughed. "Why do you give your brother such a hard time?" When Sherlock didn't answer, John prompted him. "He's not fat, you know. You _must_ know that, Mr. Powers-of-Observation."

"Mycroft got quite fat while away at university. He discovered his freedom and indulged it to an excess. That is my strongest memory of him; brother Mycroft, fat and far away."

John continued stroking Sherlock's hair. "But he's not anymore."

"No, but he's never faced the cause of it. He hasn't dealt with the things that made him become 'fat and far away'. He may have moved back and lost weight, but the _reasons_ are all still there in the back of his mind. So to me he hasn't really changed." Sherlock sounded sulky.

"What reasons?" John asked, but didn't expect an answer and wasn't disappointed when none came.

*

In the morning, Mrs. Hudson brought up a package that had arrived for John far earlier than any normal delivery service would have been at work. Sherlock gave it a hard look from several angles, with his dressing gown fluttering as he swooped around it as if it contained a bomb or anthrax, then sighed with a slight roll of his eyes and wrinkling of his nose, and announced (without opening it) that it was yet another set of new clothing and shoes from Mycroft.

John opened it. Sherlock was correct about its contents, although in addition to the clothing there was also an envelope and a small box. Inside the envelope was a gift card for the supermarket John had been shopping at the day before (the bags of groceries had been left in Mycroft's car, he realized, melting ice cream and all) worth about ten times what John had actually spent.

It also contained a note, in what was unmistakably Anthea's handwriting but Mycroft's words, apologizing that the replacement clothes from the day before had been department store fare and hastily chosen (Apologizing? Apologizing for _what_ exactly? John wondered.) and that this was the real replacement for his ruined clothes. John couldn't quite wrap his head around that, so he opened the small box. Inside was an elaborate, multi-bladed, gadget-filled Swiss Army knife identical to the one Mycroft had used the day before. Sherlock dropped the new jumper he had been scowling at and pounced on the knife. John left Sherlock to his new toy and took the clothes upstairs to get dressed. He might as well wear the new things.

"Don't wear the shoes unless you like blisters," Sherlock said, not looking up from his distractingly shiny object. "Wear old ones. We'll be doing some legwork today."

John put on his posh new outfit, feeling again that it suited him nicely. There were black trousers, an ivory shirt, and a soft, teal jumper. It felt like cashmere (not that John had ever worn a cashmere jumper, but he had pleasant memories of running his hands all over one a girlfriend had worn when he was seventeen), but when he checked to see if it was, he found that there was no label. None in any of the clothes, in fact. He studied his reflection — the outfit did something subtle and flattering for him, made his overall appearance crisper. The color of the jumper brought out his eyes, and the cut made his shoulders look broader and his waist slimmer. If this was what Mycroft's clothes did for _him_ all the time, then John could understand the apology about the off-the-peg clothes. Almost.

Back in the sitting room fifteen minutes later, he and Sherlock were both dressed and nearly ready to go out. Sherlock seemed distracted by his phone, but rattled off something about Mycroft having had a favorite bespoke tailor make John's clothes overnight, rather than making the family tailor do it. There was something curious in Sherlock's eyes when he finally looked up from his phone. 

"Don't you feel — owned — wearing those clothes? His clothes?"

John shrugged and looked at himself in the mirror over the fireplace. "I wouldn't have asked him to replace my clothes once, let alone twice, but this is what he felt my services were worth, and I like them. And no, it's not about ownership or anything like that."

"Hmm," Sherlock said from behind John. John caught a slight gesture of Sherlock's phone and wondered if Sherlock had just taken his picture. He turned and saw Sherlock pushing a few buttons on his phone before pocketing it. "Ready to go?" 

*

John was glad he'd worn his old, comfortable trainers, because they spent the day on their feet. They hopped in and out of cabs occasionally but mostly walked all over London, while Sherlock slipped notes (both written and monetary) into palms and redeemed old favors and asked questions, growing more gruff and stone-faced as each one failed to get the results he seemed to want.

Sherlock was twitchy and distracted. Several times John noticed him looking up and around instead of watching where he was going. He took whimsical likings to one part of the sidewalk or another, bumping and jostling John in the process. He gestured broadly with his hands when he spoke, bounced on the balls of his feet during the rare moments they stood still, and kept grabbing John by the shoulders and steering him in particular directions. 

John wanted to murder him. Not seriously, of course, although with Sherlock, the urge crossed his mind more often than it had with any other person in his life, and that included his family members. He reminded himself that the Trevors were in danger and apparently meant something to Sherlock, and that it wasn't entirely Sherlock's fault he'd inherited the Holmes emotional constipation and inability to process thoughts normally when they concerned people they cared about. And Sherlock was getting better, especially when compared with Mycroft.

At last, as the day progressed and Sherlock had yet to get any solid leads, John insisted (in his best 'this is happening now and you're not going to get out of it' voice) that they were going to get a sandwich and chips and coffee and sit down for a minimum of fifteen minutes. He found a cafe and ordered twice as much as he wanted in the hope that Sherlock would nick some of it. Both their moods would improve with their blood sugar levels.

As hoped, Sherlock picked at a bit of pastry as he drank his coffee. After a few minutes, John felt brave enough to try and get some answers out of Sherlock.

"You're trying to figure out where this James Trevor is?" John asked.

"Oh please, John, that should have been obvious from the string of inquiries you've heard me make today."

"But you know where the son, Victor, is, don't you? You knew he was going to hide from Mycroft and from — from these people who are after him? Did you help him?"

Sherlock took the lid off his coffee. "He's afraid. As well he should be. These men are reckless, dangerous, and panicky, as yesterday's events clearly show. He wants his father back and his business safe, but he also wants to keep his own head safely down. The homeless network is looking after him."

"But people got hurt because he didn't show up!"

Sherlock shook his head. "As I keep reminding you, not everyone feels the same way about rushing into danger as you do, John. Even in everyday life, he generally avoids the outside world. He works from home and keeps himself at a distance. Most of his employees probably don't even know his face."

"But _you_ met him."

"He wasn't always so reclusive."

John crossed his arms. "But just who is he? To you, I mean."

Sherlock sat back with a sigh, stretching out his legs under the table and bumping John's. "Didn't my dear brother tell you?"

"A bit. Not much."

"Out with it. Tell me what you've heard, what you've deduced." Sherlock stole a few of John's chips.

"He's an old fr — acquaintance of yours. Someone important anyway, from when you were young. Mycroft is trying to stop this whole business takeover thing for economic reasons, but you're on the case — and yes, it is a real case, Sherlock — for personal reasons. You want to keep them safe. Mycroft thinks you'd put yourself in danger to do that. And he — he doesn't like your relationship with them. He called them bad influences." John sat back. "There. You going to tell me how much I got wrong?"

"Nothing, actually, although whether or not someone is a bad influence is subjective. I certainly don't think so; I wouldn't be a consulting detective if not for the Trevors. So you see, the least I can do is try to help them." Sherlock finished his coffee and set the cup down. He stood up and straightened his scarf. 

Recognizing the signs that Sherlock was seconds away from dashing off to continue the investigation, whether or not John was ready, John shoved the rest of his chips in his mouth and shrugged on his jacket while chewing.

Sherlock stared out the window, fiddling with the collar of his jacket. "Mycroft just hated that while he was off rebelling, leaving me to suffer my family alone, I did what he never dreamed I could — I created my own rebellion," Sherlock said, not making eye contact as John grabbed up the rest of his sandwich and coffee. "I no longer had a brother there to support and encourage me. He thought he could step right back into that role at any time, whenever it suited him, whenever he was done with whatever he was off doing. But I never let him. In his absence, I found others to take his place. I ran away and the Trevors were good enough to take me in, in exchange for some work I did for them. They knew there was an embezzler in the business, but couldn't catch him. Victor had seen me track down a bicycle thief at school and knew what I could do, so they hired me and I ferreted him out. Mr. Trevor was so impressed he took me under his wing with the expectation that I would co-run the business with Victor one day. They valued me for my abilities and treated me as one of the family. I no longer needed Mycroft. I had replaced him. And he couldn't — and still can't — stand that they were criminals."


	3. Chapter 3

That night, despite Sherlock and John's efforts, no new information had come to light about the whereabouts of James Trevor. Sherlock paced the sitting room at 221B distractedly as John tried to coax him into making further deductions about the case by prompting him with the normal sorts of questions, as was their method of hashing things out. Sherlock was stubbornly quiet and hadn't elaborated any further about his past with the Trevors. Perhaps his earlier outpouring had made him feel too vulnerable.

Sherlock was awake and restless into the small hours of the morning, and John fell into the familiar patterns of taking care of Sherlock. When Sherlock opened the windows, letting in the freezing night air, John shut them. When Sherlock put down his laptop atop a slippery, messy stack of papers and it started to slide, John dove and caught it. And when Sherlock complained of strange smells and noises in the flat which were ruining his concentration, John stopped him from running down the stairs to gripe to Mrs. Hudson about them, and instead tried to track them down himself, despite the fact that they might have only existed in Sherlock's mind. 

Sherlock was not all right, obviously trying to find some external explanation rather than dealing with his own feelings. It was worrying to John that people from his past could evoke this kind of reaction in him.

When Sherlock finally flopped on his back on the sofa with the closed laptop wedged between his side and the cushions, and his violin within reach, apparently settling in for a good long think, John felt a sense of relief. He'd learned, after so many cases with Sherlock, to make use of any and all downtime that presented itself. The explosion and its aftermath had drained him, and he hadn't slept well — then they'd spent the day on foot, canvasing the city. He was in urgent need of a kip.

But there was Sherlock to worry about. He had already gone off on his own once on this case. And then there was Mycroft's warning that he would likely be reckless. John glanced around the room, trying to think of how he could rest while making sure Sherlock didn't leave the flat. Years ago, when he'd been helping Harry get sober, he'd used the trick of sleeping in a chair that was pushed against the front door so she couldn't sneak out for booze. It had worked in Harry's little flat, but wouldn't here, not with the layout of their building — there were two doors to the landing, and Sherlock could go through Mrs. Hudson's flat and out the back door to the alley.

Just then, though, Sherlock picked up his violin and began dragging the bow across the strings absently, solving John's problem. The violin was loud enough to be heard even from upstairs. John could have a wash and a change of clothes and even a doze (John was a very light sleeper — he had trained himself to wake up if things in his environment changed, so if the violin stopped, he'd know) while being sure Sherlock was home and safe.

*

A few hours later, at daybreak, John came downstairs, ready for another day on the case. The violin had never ceased, so John knew Sherlock hadn't slept a bit.

"Sherlock, did you —" John began, but stopped when he discovered that the sofa was empty and the violin was on the table, even though the music was still playing. He stared stupidly at the laptop, which was on and open. A set of fancy speakers were attached to it, and it was playing an mp3 — clearly a recording of Sherlock playing, as it had his customary scrapings interspersed with snatches from random pieces.

John turned the music off and made a quick check of the flat to confirm that Sherlock had, indeed, snuck out. He rubbed his face, not sure which he was more angry over — Sherlock's blatant deception, or the fact that John was being left out of what would probably be an action-filled and dangerous case.

'Wanker,' John texted to Sherlock.

'Following a lead. Safe,' Sherlock texted back almost immediately.

Then he didn't reply to any more of John's texts for the rest of the day.

John forced himself to have as normal a day as possible. He knew that if Sherlock didn't want to be found, John wouldn't be able to find him. He'd just have to trust in Sherlock and wait for him to return, at least until a reasonable amount of time had passed. John would give him until 6:30 that evening. 

So he sipped his tea, read the paper, took deep breaths, cleaned his gun, and ate beans on toast (not necessarily in that order). He resisted the urge to constantly check his phone and made a conscious effort to not think that random creaks from the stairs or footsteps outside might be Sherlock returning.

At 6:31 p.m. John texted Mycroft: 'Sherlock gave me the slip. Don't know where he went. Not replying to texts.'

John's phone rang almost immediately. Mycroft. Without even saying hello, Mycroft launched into, "Yes, I know. I had a visual on him until mid-morning, but then I lost it — or rather, Sherlock made himself disappear from the cameras. I've got a car coming to pick you up so we can discuss what to do next, face-to-face."

*

As he stepped into Mycroft's room in the Diogenes Club, John balled his fists, straightened his back, and pressed his tongue against his palate with his resolve to not get defensive if Mycroft blamed him for Sherlock leaving. It was better to prepare for these things ahead of time.

"Have a seat, John," Mycroft said, looking calmer than John had expected. "Don't blame yourself for Sherlock slipping off on his own. He's been doing it ever since he was a child. And remember that this is the same man who cheated his way out of Moriarty's airtight deathtrap — anyone who can do _that_ can certainly sneak out of 221B Baker Street."

John sat down and let out a slow breath, glad that Mycroft wasn't upset. Despite his anxiety over Sherlock's disappearance, John realized he felt more comfortable with Mycroft since they had worked together at the bomb site. Going through a dangerous situation together had a way of creating a bond between people, but more importantly, it had humanized Mycroft as well. 

"So, what do we do now?" John asked.

"We keep an eye out for him. Or in my case" — Mycroft arched an eyebrow slyly — "multiple eyes, all over the city. If Sherlock appears anywhere under surveillance, the system will alert me instantly." Mycroft held up his phone.

"What, you have some sort of facial recognition software?" John asked.

"More than that — it analyzes build, movements, and posture as well as facial features. It had been constantly improved and customized over the years, until it is perhaps the most advanced system of its type in the world — it _has_ to be, with Sherlock's adeptness at disguise and blending in."

John chuckled. "All that, just for watching your brother? That's going a little overboard, isn't it?"

Mycroft leaned forward. "John, take what you know about my brother, and imagine what the years before you met him were like. He was just as eager to throw himself into danger as he is now, only he was far more reckless. He had no one — he _allowed_ no one — to either give him advice about dangerous situations, or to watch his back."

John imagined it all too clearly. "Christ."

"Indeed. He simply wouldn't suffer attempts to protect him. I could do little more than watch at a distance and be there to pick up the pieces when things went catastrophically wrong. I was desperate, frantic with worry. But now he has you." Mycroft smiled, briefly. "And I truly, deeply appreciate you and all the things you have done to take care of my brother.

John's face felt hot. "I haven't done that much, really." He cast about for something else to talk about. "Hang on, that advanced software had to have cost you a fortune. You must use it to watch out for... I don't know, certain criminals and terrorists too."

"It is programmed to recognize several individuals," Mycroft said, dismissively. "My point is, our best option for the moment is to let the system do its job and try not to worry. Take our minds off of things. Shall we... what do you say to dinner?"

"Dinner?" John stared at Mycroft. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, coming over here, but this wasn't it. "As in going somewhere to eat, now? Us?"

"As there are no immediate actions we can take to find Sherlock. Surely you don't think searching the streets would be a worthwhile way of looking?"

John's anxiety over Sherlock was making his stomach feel like it was tied in knots, but he knew from experience that it was important to eat anyway. But sitting at a table with Mycroft... what would they talk about? Other than Sherlock, what did they have in common? He licked his lips, considering it. "Well..."

"It's my treat, of course, and any restaurant or pub of your choice," Mycroft added quickly, as if reacting to the thoughts behind John's hesitation. "Think of it as my way of paying you back for all you've done for Sherlock. And, of course, I am willing to discuss any topic you pick."

John had been trying to imagine them, sitting across from each other, eating and making conversation, but as Mycroft elaborated, John saw the flaw in the plan. 

"No," John said quickly. Then, "No, I mean — _yes_ , I'll go to dinner but not" — John gestured from Mycroft to himself — "not with you _lowering yourself_ to some casual pub, and playing host, and paying and — and forcing yourself to talk about football or blogs while having a pint, because you think that's what I want."

Mycroft looked at John, nonplussed, smile gone.

"What I mean is," John said, feeling like he was making a right heel of himself, "if we go, we go as mates. As equals. We _compromise_ , rather than you just... trying to come down to my level —"

"I never said that, John."

"I know, but, you see, I've been thinking about this and —" John ran his fingers through his hair. "Sherlock is important to me, and I'm not going away. He's like a brother to me now, and as far as I can tell, he feels the same way about me. Which means that you and I are going to know each other for a long time, and there are some things that we need to work out between us, because I can't go through life with our relationship like this. Not with you sending cars for me, whether I want to go or not, and not with you talking down to me like you're my boss. Because you're not, and you never will be. So... I'm sorry to dump this on you right now, but it was time I said it."

"No, you're correct." Mycroft folded his hands and studied them. "I've been thinking along the same lines recently, as well. I've wanted to get to know you better, John, I just haven't known how to. I've obviously gone about it the wrong way, though, but... will you forgive me, and be patient with me as I learn?"

Surprised, John took a moment to consider, before saying, "Yeah. Yeah I will. Of course. Now, how about dinner?"

*

Thirty minutes later, they were sitting in a restaurant. John was sure it wasn't as expensive as Mycroft was used to, but it was nice and felt comfortable. Mycroft had still somehow used his influence to get them a quiet, private table. The waiter brought their salads.

Picking up his fork, John said, "By the way, thank you for the second set of clothes, but you really didn't have to. I mean, you'd already replaced them."

"It was my pleasure to compensate you, John. Both of the injured men we took away from the bomb site survived. As one is my own agent, and the other is an enemy that I was able to question, your work was very beneficial to me."

"What did he say?" John asked.

"He confirmed some of what we knew or suspected. He was in the employ of someone — whom he hasn't yet named — who was involved in some rather tense negotiations with Mr. Trevor about taking over his business. They were planning some — shall we say — _alternative negotiation methods_ and arranged a meeting with Victor, which was when you unfortunately — or fortuitously, depending on one's point of view — happened to walk by."

"Victor refused, you sent in your agent —"

Mycroft nodded. "And someone — not our gunman, but someone watching the scene and giving commands remotely — somehow recognized that our lookalike _wasn't_ Victor, and gave the order to detonate the bomb." Mycroft speared a cherry tomato with his fork distractedly, but didn't eat it. "When we arrived, they gave the command to have us killed as well. Perhaps they recognized one or both of us. Of course, the dust and smoke made visibility difficult, and fortunately for us, our gunman's aim was poor."

"They want to get their hands on Victor, and Sherlock knows where he is, and won't tell us. You think Sherlock is with him now? Or has he gone in Victor's place for a second meeting?" John asked.

"Possibly. I don't know, but he is likely in danger."

"Shouldn't we let Greg — Lestrade — know what's going on at some point?" John asked, quietly. "I know we don't want to get the officials involved because of the Trevors' business not being entirely above board, but — to not let Greg know that Sherlock is missing... If things go badly, and he thinks he could have helped, he'll regret it."

Mycroft looked pensive. "I have thought of that. However, they're not very close — on a _personal_ level — are they? Their relationship is still purely a professional one, isn't it, John?"

John had believed that Sherlock and Greg had feelings for each other for a while. "Yes, but only because they're both too thick or too stubborn —"

"If we brought him in now, we would put Detective Inspector Lestrade in a difficult position by making him aware of the Trevors' business, and some of its illegal aspects. He and Sherlock aren't close enough to warrant it. At any rate, Sherlock left voluntarily and we have no evidence of foul play. It's too soon to involve the police."

"Shit," John muttered. Then, "I just want him back."

"John, this isn't your fault. Sherlock hasn't abandoned you, he's just made the choice — unwisely, in our opinions — to not involve you in this case. But he would never truly leave you. In fact, his fear has always been that you would leave him."

"Leave him?" John stared at Mycroft. "Why would I?"

"He has a fear of abandonment. I'm afraid it's partially my fault. He felt my absence keenly when I distanced myself from the family as a teenager." Mycroft smiled, an expression John had noticed often covered a different emotion. "I was too young and too eager to get away, to see what going off to university and leaving Sherlock at home would do to him emotionally. He was far more attached and dependent on me as a child than I realized. Now he's allowed himself to trust and — more than that — to _need_ you, and he fears losing you, that perhaps you will reach the limit of your patience with his eccentricities and leave," Mycroft explained. "In fact, he had hoped that if you and I got closer, and you had bonds with both Sherlock and myself, that you would be less likely to leave."

John shook his head. "He wants us to get closer? Could have fooled me. He does nothing but criticize you when I'm around."

"Personally, he still has conflicted feelings regarding me. And although he likes the idea of you and I becoming closer, he doesn't know how to express that hope without losing face, after so many years of resenting me." Mycroft stared out the window. "His understanding of relationships is rather limited and childish, really. He has merely observed that I am a gay man, and you are bisexual, and came to a conclusion which he believed would benefit us all."

"You mean. Oh. I get it. If we were... _in a relationship_."

"Yes. And yet, he has never given us much opportunity or space to get to know each other." Mycroft studied John. "Indeed, I must say that I misread what was between you and Sherlock for a long time. I believed that, if not currently romantically involved with each other, that you would eventually become so."

John shook his head. "Everyone seems to think that, but it's not like that. I care about him, of course, but as a brother, not a — a lover."

"I know that now. And when I became aware of it, I began to see you in a different way. The concept of you and I in a relationship isn't so absurd, is it?" Mycroft asked lightly.

John turned his spoon over and over on the table. "No. No, I suppose not."

Mycroft gave John a curious look, as John thought it all over. John's first impression of Mycroft had been rocky, indeed. He was a difficult man to like — but then, so was Sherlock, in a different way. John had got to know Sherlock, and had realized that his abrasiveness was Sherlock's way of shielding himself. Both brothers protected themselves — Sherlock's shields had jagged edges that wounded anyone who got close (and a few gaps, which revealed the heart underneath), while Mycroft's were perfectly smooth and solid. But the heart was there — in both of them — under the surface. John had just never seen beyond Mycroft's shields before.

"Well, we can put this aside for now," Mycroft said. "We have Sherlock's disappearance to deal with for the moment."

"Yeah," John said. "And maybe — maybe we can discuss this later."

*

John went home late that night, after the disappointment of the CCTV picking up no sign of Sherlock. Mycroft had promised to call if it did, and they had agreed to regroup in the morning.

But as tired as he was, he couldn't go to sleep, not yet. John sat on the couch, lost in thought. It was really — really — the wrong time to be thinking about anything as frivolous as starting a new relationship. What kind of person would he be, focusing on something like that while his best friend was missing and possibly in danger? But John couldn't get it out of his mind anyway — Mycroft hadn't just been making idle conversation, he really had been serious about the idea of getting together with John. More than that, Mycroft had actually _wanted_ it. John had seen it in his eyes.

John realized he had subtly felt something for Mycroft for a while, but it had been drowned out by the chaos of his life — being summoned to crime scenes in the middle of the night, clients tearfully pouring out their problems in the sitting room, and following criminals (sometimes tiptoeing, but more often at a full sprint) through back alleys — not to mention John's string of girlfriends and boyfriends. Those relationships had been like flames that were too bright to ignore, but burned out quickly, while John's feelings for Mycroft had grown slowly, quietly, and steadily — like a sapling stretching toward the sun.

And so, John thought it over. Mycroft wasn't bad looking — his looks were conventional, a bit above average, and he took pains to make himself look professional and well-groomed. The weight gain and loss (John had seen Mycroft over a range of about two stone just in the time he'd known him) seemed to be mostly under control these days, giving Mycroft a nice, trim appearance. As far as physical attraction went, there was no problem.

John's major objections to a relationship with Mycroft — Sherlock's negativity about his brother, and Mycroft's general attitude of superiority — had both been addressed and potentially resolved tonight. Mycroft had claimed that Sherlock would actually welcome the relationship, and Mycroft had tried — and done reasonably well for a first attempt — to treat John as an equal.

It could work. That sapling, if nurtured, could become a mighty oak.

Still, this wasn't the time. Not with Sherlock out of the picture. How would it look, Sherlock coming back to find out that in his absence his best friend and his brother had hooked up? No, it wouldn't do. John put the thoughts aside and tried to get some sleep.

*

It was dawn when Mrs. Hudson tapped on the door to John's bedroom. "There's a man downstairs. A client, I think."

John groaned. A client, _now_? Normally he'd tell Mrs. Hudson to send him up to the sitting room, but there was no point. John couldn't accept a case at the moment. "Be right there," John called.

John threw on some clothes, went down to the foyer, and gave the man a once-over, reading things about him as he'd learned from Sherlock. The stranger was obviously agitated, hadn't slept well, and had lost some weight abruptly as evidenced by the clothes hanging loosely off his frame. Those were all familiar signs in clients who had been through an ordeal and had reached their wits' end, and John had seen them before. But there was more — a soft look about him made John think he was someone who had come from money and had never had to work hard or deal with stress — the clothing was nice, roughly equivalent in quality to the outfits Mycroft had given John, and he appeared intelligent, but at a loss for what to do. He was handsome, with dark, deep-set eyes and a square jaw. His hair was thick and well-cut, despite not having been washed for several days. He also looked familiar, although John couldn't place him.

The man radiated urgency and distress (which John, guiltily, felt immediately invigorated by). His voice was hoarse and he spoke quickly out of agitation. "I'd like to see Sherlock Holmes."

_Yeah, so would I_ , thought John. But instead he said, "Sorry, he's not available. I can take your information and contact you when he is, but I'm not sure when that'll be. Or if you need help now I can put you in touch with New Scotland Yard, mate, I know some good officers there."

The man shook his head. "You're Doctor Watson, aren't you? And Sherlock didn't come home?"

John felt vulnerable admitting Sherlock's disappearance in case this bloke was up to no good, so he quickly said, "Sherlock is away working a case —"

"He told me about you, and said I could trust you, that I could come here if something went wrong."

"Wait." John held up his hand. "When did you see him?"

"Yesterday. Did he even tell you where he was going?"

"No." John sighed.

"He's rushed off without any backup. I knew he would, I knew he'd get himself in trouble over this," the man muttered. "You see, it's _my_ case he's working on. I'm Victor Trevor, and Sherlock has gone to meet the kidnappers and get my father back."

The reason he'd looked familiar clicked for John — Mycroft's agent at the bomb site hadn't been a perfect match, but he'd looked enough like Victor to spark some recognition.

"I've thought it over all night," Victor continued, "and I'm worried about him doing this alone. He said he could handle it, said he didn't need to bring you or Mycroft in, but... well, I've seen him overestimate himself before."

When John hesitated, the man pulled out an envelope. "You don't believe I am who I say? Look." He opened the envelope and pulled out a photo, which he handed to John. The old Kodak print felt quaint and strangely tangible. Of course, John knew photos could be faked, but he didn't think this one was. In it were two teenage boys, their arms around each other. One was obviously Sherlock. His hair and profile were unmistakable, even nearly two decades later, to say nothing of the expression. Sherlock's face was turned to the side, caught mid-speech to someone off-camera, with a glint in his eyes that John knew so well, as if someone had made a comment a moment earlier and Sherlock couldn't resist a gleeful smart retort. The young Victor in the photo was laughing, turning from the camera to look at Sherlock.

John couldn't quite read if there was sexual attraction between them, but their body language showed affection and a closeness of the sort that teenage boys didn't often show overtly. Was this what people saw between John and Sherlock? John felt intrusive, seeing the moment between the two of them in the photo, but his attitude toward Victor changed. If Sherlock cared about this man, then John did too.

John cleared his throat. "Come up to the sitting room."

*

Despite his anxiety, John resisted the urge to question Victor immediately about Sherlock's whereabouts. Victor was — _kind of_ — a client, and an agitated one at that, and there were certain things John always did to help put a client at ease before getting into the business that had brought them. But when John offered tea, Victor said he couldn't linger long.

He was looking over everything in the flat with a strange fixation, his eyes seeming to search for hints of his old friend in each item. 

"Does Mycroft have cameras in here?" Victor turned his gaze keenly to the ceiling and corners, anywhere that might hide a camera. 

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Bugger off, Mycroft," Victor said in a louder tone, reminding John of Sherlock. "He's probably already on his way here."

"Well, then, the sooner you tell me what's going on, the sooner you can get out of here and avoid him."

Victor sat down. "You know the basics of the case — my father, our business?"

John nodded. "You said he'd gone to get your father back?"

"Yes. You see, I've been in touch with my father's assistant — everyone at work thinks he's just taking a holiday — and she told me that my father had called her to schedule an overnight inspection and maintenance session for the computer systems. She thought something sounded strange about it and was worried. I texted Sherlock about it, and he rushed over to see me."

John thought back. "That would have been very early yesterday morning?"

Victor nodded. "Sherlock thought that the maintenance was a cover for the abductors to gain entrance to the building, with my father in tow, so they could force him to give them access to the systems and complete the transfer of the business over to them. So we came up with a plan. He had me call my father's assistant back to tell her that, as the security staff will have to be there overnight anyway, I've scheduled the carpet cleaners to come as well. Of course, the cleaners will really be Sherlock and members of his Homeless Network in disguise, and Sherlock hopes to recover my father and somehow neutralize the people who are holding him."

"When was all this supposed to happen?" John asked breathlessly.

"Tonight," Victor said.

John breathed a sigh of relief. It was early — they still had time.

"Sherlock rushed off to get things ready, and I haven't heard from him since. I thought it over, and he's putting himself in too much danger. These are dangerous people." Victor wiped his mouth in a nervous gesture. "It's not that I don't have faith in him bringing my father home safely, I just — I've seen that look in his eyes before, when he's about to throw himself into something. But it's different now. He has you and Mycroft, but he's still trying to go on his own."

John paced. "We know where he'll be. We know when, and why, and Mycroft and I can get there in time to help. Only why has he snuck off like this, and why is he ignoring his phone?"

Victor shrugged. "He's Sherlock. Why does he do anything? Look, he's conflicted over being involved with this at all. He's got a new life now. This mess is my father's and my own, but Sherlock is taking it personally, even when he really shouldn't. If he brought you into it, he'd have to examine why he's letting himself get so deeply involved."

"He doesn't want to get involved because... Is it something to do with why Mycroft says your family was a bad influence?" It was a blunt question, but John had to ask it.

"Pfft, Mycroft." Victor waved his hand dismissively. "He couldn't recognize a normal human relationship, even with all the surveillance equipment in Britain. And back then he couldn't even be bothered to give Sherlock a phone call or write to him once in a while, so where does he get off pretending to understand what was going on? Don't tell me you're taking his word for what things were like."

John paused to take a breath, unexpectedly angry on Mycroft's behalf. And yet John understood why someone would see Mycroft that way, and it didn't seem right to snap at them for it. "That's in the past. Mycroft and Sherlock are working to make things better between them. And you have to recognize, if you ever knew Sherlock at all, that the Holmeses may have their flaws, but there's more going on under the surface. A lot more."

Victor stared at John as he spoke, an eyebrow raised. "Maybe, but Mycroft hated me — _completely hated me_ — for no reason."

"There must have been a reason." John searched the other man's face. "Were you responsible for — I mean, was it about the cocaine?"

Victor looked out the window. "No. Not entirely. He started that on his own. But I should have seen that he was getting in over his head. I should have done something sooner, talked some sense into him. We were just kids, though. He thought he could handle it, so I thought he could, too." Victor squared his shoulders and looked John in the eye. "No, Mycroft hated me because Sherlock chose me and my family over his own, after Mycroft went off to school and left Sherlock alone with _them_ — their parents."

John sucked in a breath. "Were they abusive?"

"They were..." Victor seemed to struggle for words for a moment. "With Mycroft away at uni, Sherlock became their only outlet for their own brand of _aggressive indifference_." Victor made a sharp motion with his hands. "And Mycroft made it clear, when he left, that he was washing his hands of it and was thrilled to be getting out if it. It wasn't that he wanted that to happen to Sherlock, exactly, just that he only cared that he would no longer be stuck there. But Sherlock eventually decided he wouldn't put up with it, and all but ran away and joined my family — and our business."

"That's it? Sherlock learned the ropes from your father, and...?"

"And wound up _not_ becoming a criminal. He turned down the permanent position my father offered him." Victor shrugged. "He was a bit of a mess then, and we thought something stable would do him good, but he vanished for a few years, no matter how hard I tried to find him. Then we eventually started seeing his name in the papers — on the opposite side of the law. Bit of a shock for us, but to each his own. Still, Mycroft bitterly resented us, and even warned us off of having any further contact with Sherlock. Not that we had _any_ contact at all, at that point."

"And yet he still cares enough to get involved now that you're in trouble."

"Yes, and I don't want to see him get hurt, Doctor Watson. He's getting in over his head, and I've never been able to stop him. I'm not the person who can protect him — I'm just _not_ — but you are. You're good for him. He's looking better, he's more together, I think he's even happy." Victor looked around the flat again, as if imagining Sherlock's life here. "You've got to find him. You've got to keep him safe."


	4. Chapter 4

Victor had gone, and John was halfway through composing a text to Mycroft when his phone rang in his hand. It was Mycroft.

"I know you just had a visitor, John. Tell me — shall I have my car follow him or pick him up?"

"No," John sighed. "He's told me Sherlock's whole plan, including when and where we'll find him. He's worried for Sherlock's safety and asked us to give him some backup. I was just texting you."

"I'll send my car for you, so we can plan what to do."

*

In the Diogenes Club, at Mycroft's request, John repeated everything Victor had told him. Mycroft's forehead creased when John clumsily stumbled around some of what Victor had said about his past with Sherlock, but he didn't comment on it.

Then Mycroft spent a few minutes on his phone, talking in what sounded like code, then hung up. "I have a team preparing themselves for tonight. I assume you want to come along as well?"

John nodded. "Of course."

"We have some time to prepare. I believe Sherlock's plan is the best option for safely recovering Mr. Trevor, and intend to let the early stages of it play out without our interference. Of course, we'll head in if things begin to become dangerous."

John agreed, and they spent several hours with some of Mycroft's agents, going over the floor plans of the building, discussing various possibilities of what might happen, and going over their own plans. John mostly listened and hung back, letting those who had more experience with these kinds of things work on the plan, but when he did ask questions or offer suggestions, Mycroft listened and included John in making decisions. He was more patient than Sherlock, who tended to speak so quickly and on so many different topics that John found him hard to follow.

After lunch, John found himself alone with Mycroft in a quiet moment. Mycroft was sitting at his desk, frowning at his computer screen, waiting for his technicians to get access to the security cameras in the Trevors' main office building.

"When this is all over, I'm going to have a serious conversation with Sherlock," John said, speaking out of stress and frustration. "If he is so worried about _me_ leaving _him_ , he has to understand that it's not acceptable for _him_ to run off and put me through this."

"My brother, for all his deductive skills, is not very good at connecting the dots where emotions are concerned."

John gave a short laugh. "Like constantly complaining to me about how _horrible_ you are, when really he wanted us to get together?" When Mycroft didn't answer, John replayed his words in his mind. 'Good one, John. Really tactful,' he thought. "I mean, not that what he said was.... it was just, you know, _venting_..."

"I know, John," Mycroft said, with a resigned smile.

"I just don't know if I could stand it, if in the future..." John trailed off, unsure, his mind filled (perhaps prematurely) with thoughts of growing old with both of the Holmes brothers — and them fighting over him, butting heads because of him, their sibling rivalry now focused on who got John's time and attention. If John got close to Mycroft, would Sherlock, in order to avoid Mycroft, cut John out of his life? Or what if John was forced into the role of a mediator, or asked to pick sides?

Mycroft said, "The relationship between Sherlock and myself has improved in these last few years. All I can do is hope it will continue to do so."

John shook his head. "Mycroft, just hoping isn't enough, not when it comes to relationships. You have to _work_ at it, too. Haven't you two been at odds with each other long enough?"

"Hmm. Yes, perhaps it is time that I make more overt attempts to mend the rift between us. After all, as you say, if you are going to be in our lives, it would only be fair to you if Sherlock and I were on better terms."

John looked at Mycroft for a long moment. "You've really opened up."

"Have I?"

"I've got to know you more in these past few days than I did the first few years we knew each other. Sherlock will probably notice it, too. I just hope..." John, suddenly restless, walked over to the window. "I hope when we get him back, it won't look like we just... I don't know... have been waiting for him to get out of the way so we could get closer behind his back."

Mycroft studied John for a moment. "John, may I show you a few things that may convince you that Sherlock truly does support the idea of you and I getting closer?"

"Like what?" John asked.

Mycroft took out his mobile and opened a photo. "Such as this, for example."

John moved to stand at Mycroft's shoulder so he could see the screen. It was a photo of John at his flat, taken just a few days earlier, when John had come downstairs wearing the outfit Mycroft had sent him. "I knew it! I thought he'd sneaked a photo! But why would he send it to you?"

"He thought I might derive some pleasure from seeing how you looked in the clothes I had selected for you."

"Oh." John wasn't sure what to say to that, but he had to admit that he certainly looked rather _fit_ in the photo. And that Mycroft would want to see that, that he might think so too... John felt a little flutter in his stomach.

"There is this, also, and it is perhaps even more blatant." Mycroft turned to his computer and brought up what appeared to be saved video files from CCTV cameras. He clicked on one and it began playing.

It was John and Sherlock walking on a street. John was wearing the same clothes as in the photo, so it must have been later the same day — the 'legwork' day of the case, when Sherlock had been so full of nervous energy. The video switched through a succession of different camera angles as Sherlock and John walked. 

Once again, just like when he'd watched the footage of the aftermath of the bombing, John saw things in a new way. From this angle, it was clear that Sherlock was aware of each and every one of the cameras as they passed it, and was changing his own position and guiding John, so that John was always clearly visible and in the spotlight. Sherlock had to have known his brother was watching, so did that mean that Sherlock wanted Mycroft to notice John? To admire him?

"He was... I thought he was jumpy or something, that day. I was about ready to punch him," John began. "I had no idea why he was... I never imagined..."

"You see, John," Mycroft began slowly. "Despite his antagonism toward me, he does not object to the idea of a relationship between the two of us. Far from it."

"He... I can't believe he did that. He's... well, he's not usually so subtle."

"Also, there is this... something else I'd like to show you, John, if you don't mind. Maybe I can make things a bit plainer." Mycroft sounded almost vulnerable, and clicked another video file on the computer.

Again, the footage was obviously from an outdoor surveillance camera. It was nighttime, and the shot showed two identical buildings. John recognized the college the cabbie had taken Sherlock to on that night he'd first assisted Sherlock with a case, the same night he'd met Mycroft for the first time. John's stomach tightened as he anticipated what he was about to see.

The cab that Sherlock had arrived in was already parked between the two buildings. John watched himself run into frame, glance from one building to the other, then head toward one.

"You see, John?" Mycroft said quietly. "No one else went into either of the buildings at the time Sherlock and Mr. Hope were there. That's how I know what you did that night. You killed a man to save my brother. The strange thing is, from Sherlock's account of things, he had things under control the entire time and was never in any danger."

"I... from where I was watching, I..." John began.

"You looked deeper, and you saw what I see — the hidden dangers under the surface. The fact that Sherlock gets himself into danger, even when he appears to be in control. You saw it, and you protected him from it, as I have always tried to do. In that moment, barely even knowing Sherlock, you understood that he needed someone like you."

John had never thought about it in so much depth. "I acted on instinct — I went with my gut. I knew the cabbie had probably killed all of those people."

Mycroft waved his hand. "You don't need to justify your actions. I simply wanted you to know that I was impressed and grateful. Were I a more fanciful man..." Mycroft fidgeted with a pen on his desk. "I might say I fell in love a little right then and there."

Struck dumb, John stared at the image of the two buildings on the screen. He couldn't look at Mycroft's face, but he felt a dizzy kind of thrill that Mycroft might actually think of him that way.

"I reviewed your military records, and was quite impressed with them. And, if I may make a full confession, I programmed my software to monitor CCTV footage for you as well," Mycroft continued, not meeting John's eyes. "I believed, however, that you and Sherlock were either romantically involved, or would be once you'd come to know each other better. And I told myself that I was happy that my brother had a man like you, not only as a protector and a companion, but also as a lover." Mycroft tapped the tip of his pen on the desk. "And so I never pursued any kind of relationship with you, John, despite the fact that I may have wanted to, because until recently, I didn't understand that there really wasn't an attraction between the two of you. Even when you denied it, I believed I saw it there."

John felt a pang of sadness then. He had a vivid image in his mind, of Mycroft, alone here at his desk, watching the world — and the people he cared about — through CCTV cameras.

"Everyone gets it wrong. I do love him, and I have all along — _as a brother_. Which _doesn't_ mean I think of _you_ as a brother as well, incidentally," John said, then laughed nervously. "But it's just that — someone like you, and someone like me — what can we possibly have in common? What would we even talk about — what would we do together? Can you imagine us trying to agree about what to watch on telly or where to go on a Saturday night? And we're in such different places — I mean, I struggle with my rent, and you, you're..."

"It's all right, John. We need not take this conversation any further." Mycroft clicked the pen to retract the nib and put it into his jacket pocket, his face turned away. "I can assure you that our interactions will be entirely professional from now on."

"What?"

"Well, we're hardly schoolboys, there is no need for things to become awkward between us, simply because of unrequited attraction. I assure you, I won't —"

"No. No, you _idiot._ " John shook his head, chuckling at Mycroft, who met his eyes finally, looking shocked. "I'm saying _I fancy you too_."

"Oh. _Oh._ "

"And... I can't say what will come of it, but if you want, then... let's spend some time together, go out and see where things lead." John smiled at Mycroft. "We've got other things to focus on tonight, obviously. But after, when things have calmed down, we can spend some time together and see... see what develops."

"Yes. Of course. That would be..." Mycroft struggled to find a word, "lovely."

*

That evening, John, Mycroft and Mycroft's people arrived in several nondescript vans, parking several blocks away from the Trevors' main office building. Mycroft hinted that he had pulled some strings to keep the police away, and that he would be taking the group of kidnappers into custody afterwards. John and Mycroft had access to the local surveillance feeds as well as the building's internal security cameras on screens in their van. For now, they would wait and watch.

Around dusk — about an hour before Mr. Trevor and the kidnappers were due, but after most of the workers, aside from the security guards, had left — the 'carpet cleaners' showed up. And there was Sherlock, near the back. John breathed a sigh of relief and fought an urge to scrap their entire plan and just rush in and haul him out — but Victor's father was in danger, and after meeting Victor, John found that he wanted to help him. Watching them unload their equipment and go inside, John had to hand it to Sherlock — the homeless network, in their matching jumpsuits, really looked the part. Even their body language fit. One of them spoke with a security guard (there was no sound, unfortunately, so John didn't know exactly what they were saying) who admitted them, and they lugged their equipment in, looking convincingly like they did this everyday, that it was just another job to them, and that they were bored with it.

All except for Sherlock — his body language didn't match everyone else's. John couldn't quite put his finger on what was different — Sherlock was going through the motions and gave the appearance of working hard — only that something about Sherlock didn't look right. That made no sense at all — John knew that Sherlock was a gifted, natural actor.

"What's he doing?" John muttered.

Mycroft chuckled. "Very clever. Very subtle."

"Explain?"

Mycroft studied the screen, stroking his chin absently. "In case anyone — such as the security personal, or the kidnappers themselves — is watching the cleaners, Sherlock is intentionally drawing attention away from the group and onto himself. He's playing the part of someone who has infiltrated a legitimate group in order to gain access to the building, you see? He's making _them_ look more natural, while making sure that he gets noticed as not belonging. See, his jumpsuit, it matches theirs in color and style perfectly, but it's made of a different fabric. The wolf in sheep's clothing, letting himself be noticed so no one looks too closely at the rest of the flock. He _wants_ to get caught."

"That idiot. Why on earth would he —?"

"Why indeed? Getting caught would mean information, the kidnappers dropping their own disguises, and assisting in the recovery of Mr. Trevor. It would also mean leaving the rest of the group at liberty and unobserved.

John rubbed his forehead. "Brilliant. Brilliant, and _ridiculously dangerous_."

"That's Sherlock."

A short time later, yet another van pulled up. This one had the logo for a company dealing with computer systems on the side, and a group of men wearing matching polo shirts with the logo on the front pocket also went up to the door, where the security guard let them in.

"Is Mr. Trevor there?" John asked.

"Yes." Mycroft pointed at one of the men, and John could see that he was subtly being guided along by the others. Something in their posture made John think they had hidden handguns on them.

They watched as the group went inside and were escorted by one of the security guards past the carpet cleaners and into one of the lifts.

"Why didn't he call out to the security guards? They work for him, don't they?" John asked, gesturing at the screen in frustration.

"Security guards can be bought off," Mycroft said dismissively. "In fact, I suspect they have been, based on what we've seen so far."

"Christ," John muttered. That meant they had more enemies and fewer allies in the building.

The group of kidnappers made their way from camera to camera through the building, two of them flanking Mr. Trevor. The guard let them into a large office on the top floor then went back down to the lobby, where Sherlock was standing separate from the rest of the group. John and Mycroft watched the game play out, with Sherlock pretending to work but also pretending to stealthily observe the guards' monitors at their station. Sherlock wanted to get caught, but didn’t want to be too obvious about it.

When Sherlock let one of the guards catch sight of him as he openly watched a monitor, Mycroft clicked his tongue. "Sherlock. He's going too far now. It's overkill. He's making sure they react to him, and quickly."

"Do we need to go in?" John asked.

"Soon," Mycroft said. "I have agents ready to move in at a moment's notice as well. Sherlock's homeless network are doing their job as well, getting into position, likely prepared to subdue the kidnappers at some prearranged cue from Sherlock." He pointed out a group of the carpet cleaners who were taking a service lift up to a higher floor, unnoticed by the guards, who were now all watching Sherlock.

"The homeless network outnumber them, but they're not armed — and the other blokes are. I don't like this, Mycroft, we can't let them —"

"Yes, I agree."

Just then, two of the guards rounded up Sherlock and took him up to the office in a lift.

"Time for us to go," Mycroft said, sending a quick text. The van they were in began to move, while on the monitors, a group of Mycroft's black-suited agents converged on the front doors.

The street around the building was jammed full now with all the vehicles that had brought the various groups in, so John and Mycroft got out about half a block away and covered the rest of the distance on foot.

For the second time in a week, John found himself and Mycroft rushing into danger together. And it felt _right_. He just prayed that, this time, there wouldn't be a need for them to give first aid.

When they arrived at the building, Mycroft's agents had the doors open and the security guards restrained. John saw something he hadn't been expecting — Victor Trevor, just inside the front doors, speaking with Anthea, along with an unfamiliar blonde woman.

Victor glanced up as John and Mycroft entered, and John saw a look of relief on his face when their eyes met, followed by a more stoic expression when he recognized Mycroft, as if he were determined to show no emotion, no vulnerability, to the man.

"So, come out of hiding at last?" Mycroft asked, reverting to the silky smooth polite, condescending tone that John hadn't heard from him recently. John shot him a look of admonishment.

Victor glared at Mycroft. "I wasn't going to, but then I realized that it wasn't too late, that I could still come and do whatever I could to put things right."

"Good for you," John said, heartily.

"We're not being allowed in, though," the woman said, glancing at Anthea.

"This is Miss Gloria Scott, my father's assistant," Victor explained. "She's trustworthy. She's been my eyes and ears inside the business during this whole ordeal."

"And yet she failed to warn you that your entire security staff was in league with the men who were trying to take over your business, and have kidnapped your father," Mycroft said.

Victor and Gloria both glanced reflexively at the security guards who were being taken out and put into the vans by Mycroft's people. "No. Actually, she picked up on that," Victor began, sounding embarrassed. "She sensed that something was going on with them, and mentioned her concerns several times over the past few months. It's my fault I didn't follow it up more thoroughly. I... I won't let things slide here anymore. I'm going to be more involved. Starting now. Speaking of which, have you found my father?" Victor looked earnestly from Mycroft to John. "And where is Sherlock?"

"Upstairs, in the office," John said.

The lift doors opened then, revealing a mob of people in dark suits, along with few in carpet cleaner's jumpsuits, restraining some of the kidnappers. They took them out and put them into the vans Mycroft had waiting. John looked carefully, but neither Sherlock nor Mr. Trevor were among them.

"That wasn't all of them. Some remain upstairs, in the midst of a stand-off," Anthea told them.

"Right, then we're going up," John said, and went to the lift without waiting for Mycroft's approval. Luckily he — as well as Victor and Gloria — were right behind him. They went up to the hallway that led to Mr. Trevor’s office, the building familiar to John from the layouts he'd studied earlier as well as from the security cameras.

They paused at the open office door, sensing the tension inside.

Sherlock was on his feet, unharmed but disheveled and with strings of twine dangling from his wrists — he'd obviously had his wrists tied, but had got free, all in the short time John and Mycroft had been away from watching the security cameras. He was standing protectively over an older man who was sitting on the floor. The two remaining kidnappers, who were being held by a number of Mycroft's agents and Sherlock's homeless network, were glaring at Sherlock. John barely let himself acknowledge the rush of relief at seeing that Sherlock was all right. The situation was still tense. It wasn't over yet. Sherlock glanced at the doorway, meeting John's gaze with a grateful look, then letting his eyes linger on Victor in surprise.

"Jack?" Victor was staring at one of the kidnappers.

"Jack Prendergast, in the flesh," Sherlock said. "After the bombing, I knew that one of the kidnappers must know Victor personally. Why else would they chose to detonate the bomb rather than meet with Victor's lookalike? Clearly someone — watching the meeting from a safe distance, likely with binoculars from a nearby building — recognized that the man who arrived for the meeting was _not_ Victor, and therefore knew Victor's face well enough to catch the deception. But who? Victor's own employees don't even know his face, not since he became a recluse. So, it was someone who knew Victor before. Then I stopped by the building on my own and deduced that the security guards were loyal to — and receiving extra payment from — someone other than the Trevors. Just like the last time I investigated a disloyal employee for Mr. Trevor."

"You did?" John asked.

"Years ago," Mr. Trevor said, from behind Sherlock. "I knew there was an employee cheating the company, and Victor told me about an amazing boy at school who could know everything about someone at a glance and could solve any problem he wanted to. So I employed Sherlock, and he caught Prendergast, as well as the crooked security guards."

"And now here he is, years later, still bitter over having been sacked because of a teenager. It's been an embarrassment to him this whole time, and now he’s trying to take over the business at any cost, as if that will put things right." Sherlock shook his head.

"I would have purchased the business fair and square. Things didn't have to go this way, but you forced my hand by being so unreasonable," Prendergast said, struggling against the men restraining him, and staring Mr. Trevor down. "I have the money to do it, I have the resources, and I don't even need this business. I just wanted to take it away from _you_."

"You didn't think I'd be here. Good on you, Victor, bringing me back in," Sherlock said. "Nice to see you here — I didn't expect you. Mycroft, on the other hand, I did expect. You're here just in time. You can take them now." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. At a command from Mycroft, his agents took the kidnappers out.

"All right?" John asked, stepping forward and grasping Sherlock's upper arms. "You never do that to me again, you understand? You don't shut me out of a case and take off on your own, no matter what."

"It was barely a case," Sherlock protested. "But you do come in handy when you're along. As did this. Thank you for the loan." He held out the multi-bladed knife that Mycroft had given John and showed him the cut ends of the twine around his wrists.

"We're going to need to talk about this more later." John took the knife and put it in his pocket, a memento of this crazy week.

"We have a lot to talk about, I see," Sherlock said, giving Mycroft a significant look.

John sighed. He no longer bothered asking or wondering how Sherlock deduced things. He had more important things to worry about at the moment, like Mr. Trevor's health, so he knelt beside him and checked him over, Victor and Gloria anxiously at his side. Mr. Trevor was exhausted, mildly dehydrated, and had a few bruises, but nothing major. He brushed aside concerns about his health, but promised to drink plenty of fluids and rest for a few days.

While John was doing that, Sherlock went to the remaining members of his homeless network briefly. He handed each a few bank notes, and then they left.

"What do I owe you, Sherlock?" Victor asked, having noticed the exchange of money.

"Nothing."

"But — for your expenses at least. You shouldn't have to pay for that," Victor said.

"You don't owe me," Sherlock said, firmly.

Victor and his father looked at Sherlock for a long moment, as if they wanted to force him to take payment, but just nodded.

As someone who paid half the rent, and who knew that the case had resulted in the better part of a week of unpaid work, John had the urge to disagree — but he didn't. Despite everything, even the fact that Victor had initially gone into hiding and had let Mycroft's agent go into danger in his place, the Trevors seemed like decent people and were obviously important to Sherlock. Sherlock sometimes waived his fee for particularly interesting cases, but John couldn't remember seeing him do so out of a sense of debt to anyone else, or a sense of friendship. It had been messy and dangerous — and they would talk about it — but John thought that a little altruism, now and then, would do Sherlock good.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "We've kept the police away, knowing that would be more agreeable for everyone involved. And as these men we've detained are clearly dangerous and have past records, I will deal with them, and you shouldn't be bothered by this kind of thing again — assuming you manage to hire more trustworthy security personnel in the future."

"That's the kind of thing we needed you for, Sherlock," Mr. Trevor said, getting to his feet. "Just one glance at an employee — better than a background check."

Sherlock smiled wryly. "At any rate, my debt to you is paid off, is it not?"

"Debt?" Victor asked.

Sherlock turned and stared at Victor in a way that was all too familiar to John — that look that said, 'Clearly it's obvious, even to an idiot like you?' "For taking me in all those years ago. Giving me a place to stay, a job. Encouraging me." Sherlock turned to Mr. Trevor. "Then I went and wasted all the time and effort you invested in me by not staying and properly joining the family business, as you had hoped I would. All I did was sniff out one dishonest employee before I was on my way. And even he came back to cause you more grief."

"It was no debt, and it was no waste," Mr. Trevor said kindly, rising and placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Our only regret was that you left so abruptly and hid the troubles you were having from us, and had to face them on your own."

Sherlock looked away, an introspective, vulnerable look in his eyes. "I thought a clean break was better once I'd decided not to accept to position. Especially as my... chemical dependence was becoming more and more difficult to manage..."

"You needed a family then, and having you around was our pleasure, no matter what you were going through." Mr. Trevor patted Sherlock's back.

Mycroft stepped forward. "Mr. Trevor, I'd like to formally thank you, and apologize, for everything that happened back then." Mycroft held out his hand and Mr. Trevor shook it. "I realize now, I should have been more involved in Sherlock's life. I was wrong when I said that Sherlock never had any friends. I hope he will allow me to make it up to him now."

"At any rate," Sherlock said, a bit too loudly and abruptly, moving a few steps away from Mycroft and Mr. Trevor, "it seems to me that you already have an employee who is a rather good judge of character." He looked at Gloria. "Although perhaps not in the same way I am. Victor tells me that Miss Scott had a 'gut feeling' about the security guards going back for months, and sensed that something was fishy about Mr. Trevor being 'on holiday'. You should listen to your assistant. Woman's intuition," Sherlock added with disdain, although his praise had been genuine, and Gloria smiled at it.

"I have a car downstairs to take you home. Anthea is expecting you in the lobby. We'll take care of things here. I will leave you some of my agents to act as security until you are able to make other arrangements," Mycroft told the Trevors and Gloria. They thanked everyone again and left, leaving Sherlock, John and Mycroft alone.

"So, the two of you." Sherlock looked from John to Mycroft. "Well, it's about time."

"It's not um, not official yet," John said, while Mycroft stared at the wall, looking uncomfortable.

"Waiting for my blessing? How very quaint. You have it," Sherlock said.

"Oh, thank goodness for that," Mycroft replied.

John ignored their sarcasm, and said, "Just promise me, Sherlock — whenever your sibling rivalry flares up in the future, don't expect me to take sides. I'm going to remain completely impartial. Whatever it is, either solve it between yourselves, or the three of us can talk it out together."

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "For what it's worth, I have already given John my word that I will work on improving my relationship with you."

Sherlock's mouth twisted. "I can try. For John's sake, not yours, obviously," Sherlock said, but his tone was light.

The three of them went back down to the lobby. Through the windows, John could see some of the homeless network and Mycroft's agents still standing around. Mycroft and Anthea went outside to supervise as, one by one, the vans filled and departed.

"Here, let me get this stuff off your wrists." John used the knife to cut through the restraints on Sherlock's wrists. It was the first private moment John and Sherlock had, so John, while busy working, said, "Sherlock, you know I'm not going to leave you, right? We'll be friends until we're little old men in some retirement home — if that's what you want. Regardless of how things go with Mycroft."

"Oh. I see."

Sometimes it was hard to tell if Sherlock had fully understood and processed something, or was caught up with the workings of his own mind. John was about to press Sherlock for a response, or to even just acknowledge he'd heard John, when Sherlock spoke softly.

"Good."

John smiled and finished getting the twine off and checking the friction burns on Sherlock's wrists — they weren't bad. Sherlock must have cut the link between his wrists quickly and not struggled against the bonds much. 

"I've been meaning to text Lestrade," Sherlock said, abruptly, taking out his phone.

"Sherlock, it's the middle of the night. And — why? You know we can't tell the Yard about any of this."

Sherlock waved his hand, dismissively. "Not about this case — well, not exactly. I won't tell him any of what really happened. But right now, he thinks he didn't make any progress on the bombing investigation because of his own incompetence — not because the leads I gave him were false. I want to tell him that he didn't make any mistakes — I did."

John smirked. He couldn't help himself. "You're going to tell him you made a mistake? You think he'll believe that?"

"I will explain it in a way the average person can understand. John, what's that crude phrase you use when you forget something or make a mistake due to not thinking? The one you picked it up from some film."

John thought about it and sighed. " _Brain fart_?"

"Yes. Perhaps he will accept it if I explain that I simply had a _brain fart_ regarding the clues at the scene."

"Don't. Don't use that phrase." John made a face. "And actually — when have _I_ ever used it?"

"At any rate, I intend to ask him to dinner to make it up to him," Sherlock said.

"Oh? What's brought this on?" John asked.

"As of tonight, I have learned that the Trevors never regarded me as a waste of time, Mycroft is willing to try to repair our relationship, and you want to be friends with me for the rest of your life. There is a theme, and I intend to continue it. In fact — perhaps I will even _call_ , rather than texting." Sherlock gave John a cheeky look, then turned his attention to his phone.

Grinning to himself, John went outside to give Sherlock privacy. Only one car was left, apparently waiting for John and Sherlock. Anthea and the driver were waiting, leaning against the bonnet, but Mycroft was sitting in the back seat with the door open.

John leaned down to talk to Mycroft. "Sherlock is just wrapping something up, then he'll be ready to go."

"Very well," Mycroft said. "And as for other... matters? Are we...?"

It was so uncharacteristic for Mycroft to not be able to finish a sentence, it was terribly endearing.

"Oh, we're _fantastic_ ," John said. He leaned in closer to Mycroft.

"One moment," Mycroft said, abruptly putting up a hand to stop John.

John hesitated, confused and a bit put out, while Mycroft reached up to the ceiling of the car. He pulled down what was unmistakably a tiny camera, looked at it contemplatively for a moment, and put it in his pocket. "A bit of privacy is called for, I think?"

"Well. That's a first," John said, and kissed Mycroft. The moment seemed to freeze and imprint itself in John's mind — Mycroft's soft lips, the little breathy sound of desire he made, the smell of his cologne.

It was the first of a lifetime of kisses.


End file.
